


I shall no more to sea

by magnificentmoose



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Missing Scene, Post Carnivale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 07:17:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15925547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificentmoose/pseuds/magnificentmoose
Summary: I shall no more to sea, to sea,Here shall I die ashore—Damn England, damn the Discovery Service, and damn Sir John Franklin.





	I shall no more to sea

It must be around two o’clock in the morning because Francis Crozier’s mouth is dry and across the table, Fitzjames is beginning to look like a forlorn bloodhound. Not that time means anything significant on a ship that is a hair breadth’s away from splintering. They’ll be abandoning it soon enough. God willing, if they make it back to England and someone dramatizes their little misadventure, their ship would crack and swoon like the many damsels in distress that litter London’s stage. 

Crozier would refuse to attend on principle. Barring that, he would attempt to barricade himself in as he was wont to do in light of social proceedings that he found he couldn’t be present at without a bottle of whisky inside him.

Of course, all the whisky has been purged off both ships. Dear God, it has only been two days since his body had decided that it would function properly and Dr. Stanley had taken it upon himself to give up the ghost. Soon enough, he and Fitzjames will have to give the very same order that he’s been toying with for over a year now. Damn England, damn the Discovery Service, and damn Sir John Franklin. 

“Francis? You’re not going to fall asleep on me, are you?” Fitzjames’ voice is too soft for Crozier’s liking. 

His second-in-command’s eyes are ringed by dark patches and his hair could do with the good pass of a comb. Fitzjames has spent most of the last two nights in and out of Crozier’s cabin and not once has he seen the man shut his eyes except to weep silently. Thin tears had run down his cheeks and it was as if his whole body couldn’t seem to stop shaking. He hadn’t asked Francis for any measure of privacy but had accepted a hand to the shoulder and a companion in grief. 

“‘M’fine, James.” He doesn’t like the sound of his own voice either: it is hoarse, thick, and altogether too loud. “You look like you’re the one who could with a bit of decent shut-eye. Besides, there’s not too much else I think we can over tonight. The tins won’t unspoil themselves.”

“Pity. When we make it back home, I swear I will find the man who soldered them and bleed him until he is dry.” Fitzjames stands up, spins his chair and straddles it as if this is a casual evening over drinks at an officer’s club and the spry, young commander is about to launch into one of his stories.

Crozier cannot decide what is more amusing: the thought of the handsomest man in the British Navy in court or the fact that he still thinks that they will make it back to England.

“I don’t suppose you could ring Jopson for some curtains? I didn’t think it could get any brighter out there, but apparently, this place still has a few surprises in store for us.” 

The candles have burned down to the wicks and the aurora borealis outside _Terror’s _starboard window is glowing green inside the cabin. It is just as verdant as when he saw it for the first time over twenty years ago. Fitzjames’ lips are drawn tight and his eyes keep drifting to some point to the left of his head.__

__“Do you ever wonder,” he begins, sitting up and hearing the bones in his back slot into place, “that if any of the society ladies could see this particular green, they would come roaring up here?”_ _

__Fitzjames grasps the conversation by the neck, a thin smile transforming his whole face. “Good Lord, could you imagine Lady Jane and Miss Cracroft at the head of a flotilla of ships in order to capture the color and replicate it in cloth. No doubt she would also be successful in finding the Passage.”_ _

__An image of Lady Jane wrapped in a dozen comforters, chin raised defiantly, Welsh wig pulled low over her hair comes to mind, and Crozier barks out a laugh. Lady Jane in the Arctic? Sir John would be apoplectic._ _

__“It is good of you, Francis, to humor me like this. I know I haven’t been quite myself lately.”_ _

__“If you haven’t been yourself, then I can’t imagine what I’ve been for the last few weeks.”_ _

__“That was different. You were…” Fitzjames struggles to latch on to the right word before settling on “…indisposed.”_ _

__“Indisposed?” He almost wants to laugh and he raises an eyebrow. “Is that what you call it? Do you know what Sir John called it? He called it being weak in one’s vices, James.”_ _

__As soon as the words leave his lips, he realizes it was the wrong thing to say. The silence between them feels all too familiar. He’s not drunk, but maybe he’s more tired than he realizes. Secrets have a funny way of slipping off the tongue when sleep shifts from desire to necessity._ _

__“I’m sorry, Francis,” and the man lowers his head as if he is a scolded dog. “I didn’t realize the full nature of his opinions towards you.” That’s as much of a lie as anything he’s heard come out of Fitzjames’ mouth, but the words are sincere and contrite._ _

__It is the first apology he’s ever had from the man and he wants to bask in it as if he were a tomcat in a bit of sunshine. And then he thinks better of it: to hold it over Fitzjames’ head would be no better than the secret whisperings Sir John had engaged in. He values whatever sort of fragile peace that they’ve managed to scrape together._ _

__“Come on, James. I think it’s time you hauled yourself out of that chair and into a bed. We’ve been checking lists and poring over maps for the better of the night: the rest of the officers have probably been in bed hours ago. And don’t you even think about walking back to _Erebus_ with that thing on the ice. You will sleep here.” _ _

__In lieu of an answer, Fitzjames leans across the table to pick up a volume that had been set at the corner of one of the maps and examines the spine, turning it over in his spindly fingers. He opens to the frontispiece and lets out a small laugh. It is the loudest sound Crozier has heard him make in two days._ _

__“‘O brave new world, that has such people in ’t!’ Shakespeare, Francis? I had no idea that you’d been hauling this around for so long. I cannot count how many times someone quoted that to me before we left England. Do you remember that awful production that was sponsored by the Admiralty?” He begins to let out a yawn and then covers his hand with his mouth, his eyes going wide._ _

__Crozier picks up the second book and the map curls in on itself with a violent start. The feel of the leather is well worn and familiar and Hobbes jumps out at him in on gold letters on the spine. He reaches across the table and plucks the Shakespeare out of Fitzjames’ clammy hands._ _

__“Bed. No arguments. How am I supposed to explain to the men that their commander couldn’t lead them due to an extreme case of fatigue?” He stands and finds that his knees have gone quite stiff. “I do recall that the Miranda went tripping over the stage dressed in white and shedding petals everywhere.” He goes to stand by Fitzjames’ chair and waits for the man to rise._ _

__“The Ariel was so waif-like that I was sure he would positively faint. If I remember correctly, you were over in the next box whispering to Sir John about the impracticality of the costumes. When he found me later, he told me he thought they were ‘inspired.’”_ _

__What Crozier remembers most about that night was going home with a splitting headache, downing several measures of whisky, and waking to find his dress uniform in need of a good pressing. What had troubled him the most was seeing Fitzjames in his element: surrounded by a group of admirers in black frock coats who listened as he told some variation of one of his war stories. A peacock trooping with a pack of rooks. He had stood side by side with James Clark Ross and together they had watched the performance that was so much more vastly entertaining than what they had come to see._ _

__It is too late and too cold to be chatting so light-heartedly about a memory so far removed in time and place that he wonders if he didn’t just imagine it._ _

__“I don’t think even Shakespeare could have imagined something like this.” Fitzjames has gone over to the window and is staring out the window. In the glow aurora, he looks rather pallid and Crozier notices the way his cravat is wrapped somewhat carelessly around the throat. He looks so much older in the light._ _

__“No, James,” is his reply, bitter on the tongue. He makes his way over to Fitzjames and claps a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s see about getting you some sleep.”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> I started working on this a month ago as a sort of missing moment between these two as a way to try to account for their increasing intimacy in the last third of the season. Repressed Victorian emotions and Shakespeare is one of my favorite combinations! 
> 
> As always, any thoughts are appreciated. Thank you for reading! x


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